


The Home Was Never Like This Affair

by spikesgirl58



Category: Man from Uncle - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:32:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/824846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sequel to The Romanian Affair.  Napoleon and Illya are headed back for retraining at Illya's ancestral home, except now it's the northern version of Survival School and the guy in charge is just as hardnosed as Cutter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Home Was Never Like This Affair

    A wave of disbelief spread across the handsome, slightly sullen features of Napoleon Solo.  His office door slid open, and he dropped the offending sheet of paper on his desktop.  A similar look of dismay was reflected in the face of his partner, Illya Kuryakin, as the Russian collapsed into a paper‑laden chair next to the desk.

     "I don't believe this," the blond muttered.  "Two months of training, plus a refresher course?  What have I done to deserve this?"

     He turned the question to Solo, but the dark‑haired man merely threw his hands up in a disgusted 'I don't know' gesture.

     "I'll bet it was that car in Luxembourg."  Kuryakin's brow furrowed with concentration.  “You remember, Napoleon.  You tossed a lit cigarette into the gas tank.”

     "Only to cover our escape.  More likely it was the post office you blew up in Coons Rapids."

     "Where?"

     "Indiana, remember?  That brunette with the lime‑green, incredibly clingy top and leather skirt..." he trailed off at Kuryakin's blank expression.  Taking a deep breath, he continued, "Illya, the lab that was working on mind control for pets."

     "Why didn't you say so in the first place? Technically, I did not blow up that post office ‑ the bomb did."

     "A fact I'm sure Mr. Waverly considered."

     "I considered everything, Mr. Solo."

     Both agents started at the voice of their superior, Alexander Waverly.  The older man stood in the doorway, a sheaf of papers tucked beneath one arm, his pipe in the other hand.  "I see you found your assignment orders," he said as Illya rose to offer him the chair, scooping up the papers and piling them onto Solo's desk.

     "Yes, sir," Solo said as he also stood.  "We were just wondering why...that is to say, what is the..."

     Mr. Waverly settled into the seat and began a search of various pockets for his pipe tobacco.  It almost appeared as though he'd not heard, but Solo knew that wasn't the case.  Eventually, Waverly, upon filling the bowl of his pipe and lighting it, cleared his throat and looked back at his two top agents.

     "I was reviewing your file, Mr. Solo.  It's been three years since you've had a refresher course of any sort."

     "But a training assignment too, sir?  I think I could better serve UNCLE in the field than stuck inside a stuffy classroom, lecturing greenhorns on the evils of THRUSH."

     "Perhaps, Mr. Solo, but you are also approaching the age of mandatory field retirement.   I don't mind occasionally waiving the rule in special cases, but only for an agent who is in top condition, both mentally and physically."

     "Tough luck, Napoleon," Illya observed, smiling slightly at his partner's look of dismay.

     "As for you, Mr. Kuryakin." The Russian straightened as Waverly turned his steely gaze upon the man.  "Upon reading your file, I see no less than four major and six minor injuries in the last twenty-three months, which led to a combined total of one hundred and two days of medical leave.  This suggests that you are getting careless, bored, masochistic, or need your appreciation of fieldwork honed.  I intend to find out which before I end up reading yours or Mr. Solo's obituary."

     "I assume this means there is no way of convincing you otherwise, sir?"  Napoleon's voice was like a little boy trying to stay up past his bedtime.

     "As the saying goes, Mr. Solo, as much as a snowball's chance in Hades.  Good day, gentlemen."

     After he left, the two agents looked at each other.

     "You know what we need to do," Solo finally asked.

     "Retire."

     "Try again."

     "Go over the fence.  The KGB would love to get their hands on you, Napoleon.  Figuratively speaking, of course."

     "Wrong again."

     "What do we need to do?"  The blond crossed his arms, still scowling at the prospect of the assignment.

     "Luchow's."

     "No, Napoleon."  Illya was firm.  "The last time we went to Luchow’s, I had a hangover for three days."

     "We deserve it, Illya.  All we're going to get for the next two months is reconstituted garbage a la jungle."

     "Absolutely not and that is my final word."

 

     Napoleon Solo studied Luchow’s menu carefully, weighing his options and doing his best to avoid his partner's glare.  "I think I'll have the Drei Mignons a la Berliner and your Molossoi caviar for two, please."

     "Very good, sir.  And for you?"  The waiter turned to Kuryakin, who was tucking his glasses into an inner pocket of his jacket.

     "The Beef Bourgeoisie, please."

     "Excellent choice.  Have you decided upon a wine?"

     "I think the Venegazzu Cabernet."  Illya handed back the menu and wine list.

     "Good choice," Solo concurred, saluting his partner with his bourbon and water.  "To your health, Mr. Kuryakin."

     "And may we continue to hold onto it," Illya finished, sipping his own drink.  "What do you suppose is the real reason we're being sent away?"

     "I don't know," Solo admitted, surveying the room out of habit.  "Maybe for the reasons he gave, maybe not.  I was waiting for a lecture on why I hadn't sent you off months ago."

     "So was I."  Illya sat back as a plate of caviar and accompaniments was set in front of them.  "Why wasn't I?"

     Solo looked up from the cracker he was loading with the fishy delicacy.  "Short‑handed too soon after a major incident, no need after a minor one.  You pick."

     Illya smiled his wordless appreciation at the man. "I still can't help but wonder..." he trailed off chewing on his own cracker.

    "A deadly habit.  Mr. Waverly would not approve."

     "Nor would he approve of his field agents throwing away their hard‑earned money on extravagances such as Luchow's," came an altogether too familiar dry tone.

     "Oh no," Illya whispered, nearly inaudibly.  Turning in his seat, he met the blue‑grey eyes of Alexander Waverly straight on.  "Good evening, sir."

     "Gentlemen, I believe you have met my wife."  Both men were on their feet before he could finish his sentence.

     "But of course," Solo's charm kicked into gear. "How are you this evening, ma'am?"

     "Very well, Mr. Solo.  You must be Mr. Kuryakin.  Alex talks about you often."

     Illya clicked his heel gently and bent down over the woman’s hand.  “A pleasure, madame.”

    “Out on the town, I see. I'm always telling Alex that he doesn’t allow you young gentlemen any time to yourselves.”

     "Last meal for the condemned man," Illya said with a smile as they re-seated themselves.

     At Mrs. Waverly's puzzled look, her husband turned to her.  "They're the ones about to leave on that training assignment, my dear."

     "Your poor dears," Mrs. Waverly commented sympathetically, and Solo did his best to look browbeaten.

     "None of that, now," Waverly reprimanded her gently. "It's part of their job, and if we don't hurry along, we shall miss the first act of the play.  It was a pleasure, gentlemen."

     "Why do I have a bad feeling about this, Napoleon?" Kuryakin asked after the couple was well out of earshot.

 

 

CHAPTER TOO

     Two men stood silhouetted in the light of a full moon.  Despite the absence of clouds, fine flakes of snow drifted down from the dark sky.

     "I have the impression that we're not getting a reception committee."  Illya pulled his collar up against the cold air.

     "I don't follow you," Napoleon Solo muttered absently as he continued to scout the horizon, but the train station was strangely deserted.

     "This is a refresher course.  Wouldn't it make sense to start right away?"

     That capped the nagging feeling Solo had ever since getting off the train.  "I'm afraid I have to agree.  Do you think you can find your way to the castle?"

     "It hasn't been that long, Napoleon."  Illya looked about, getting his bearings.  "It should be three or four miles," he pointed, "in that direction."

     "So much for the adage that you can't go home again."

     The castle Solo referred to came into Kuryakin's possession as part of his grandfather's will.  Illya, having no use or desire for a castle to call his own, had turned it over to UNCLE.  Napoleon remembered that trip quite clearly, all the murders.  It had been a week not to be forgotten.  Somehow, if he'd known it was going to come back to haunt him in the guise of a refresher course, he'd have probably helped the killer.

     He started after the Russian, still thinking about the irony of the whole affair.  He was glad he'd listened this time to Illya's suggestion for heavier clothes.  A three-piece suit and Italian shoes would not have been adequate protection against the snow and cold of a Romanian winter.

     They walked down the road, the frigid night air keeping the pace brisk.  Suddenly, Solo paused, his attention fixed upon the shadows on either side of the road.

     "Napoleon?"  Illya, likewise, had stopped.  "Do you feel it?"

     "We're not alone."  Suddenly, a shape moved, catching Solo mid‑chest and knocking him to the ground.  Instinct, polished by years of necessity, came into play, and Solo easily tipped the attacker over his head with a well‑planted foot.

     Illya was better prepared than Solo, being the second one to be rushed.  A glint of steel alerted him, and the Russian's jacket was off and wrapped around his arm without stopping to consider the action.  The fact that this could be part of an exercise nagged at his brain, but he wasn't taking chances.  THRUSH was an all too distinct possibility, even considering the nearness of an UNCLE base.

     Napoleon was still on the ground, wrestling with one man, while keeping another away with purposely aimed punches and kicks.  He took the opportunity to dart a look at his partner, who was warily circling a knife wielding attacker.  A shape caught his eye, and he landed a powerful punch to keep his man down while shouting, "Illya, ugly at two o'clock."

     The Russian jumped back, narrowly avoiding the new opponent.  Unable to check his own momentum, the man ran full into Illya's initial attacker and fell to the ground, groaning.  Illya's only guess was that the knife had found its mark, but in the wrong belly.

     A sudden whistle pulled the attackers back, leaving Illya and Napoleon in the middle of the road.  The dark‑haired agent dropped to a knee beside the fallen man and pulled up his black turtleneck.

     "You'll be okay, it's just a scratch," he spoke casually to the man, now convinced this had all been for their educational benefit.  He pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and held it to the man's side.  "Can you hold that in place?  We'll get you some help soon."

     "All right, students, can you tell me what they did wrong?" a voice from the brush spoke calmly.

     "They won, didn't they?"  This came from one of Solo's assailants, one that was now nursing a bruised rib.

     "There is no winning or losing in this, Iaconis, only living or dying," chastised the voice, and the speaker emerged from his hiding spot.  "Solo's attention was distracted from his opponent to his partner.  While he could possibly save his partner's life by such a move, he also becomes vulnerable himself.  This would not work in a gun battle, and it also makes you overly dependent.  This is not advisable should the partner go down and you find yourself alone.  What else?"

     "He went to the aid of a fallen enemy agent."  This remark was calm and detached as the speaker removed a black hood from his head.

     "Correct.  Why did you, Mr. Solo?"

     Napoleon stood, anger pulling him up to his full height.  "Because a man is a man, enemy or otherwise, and, unlike THRUSH, UNCLE does take prisoners.  Besides, my partner is watching my back, something he is supposed to do."

     "Fair response, Mr. Solo.  Training session dismissed. Someone help Colson to the van."  The man approached the two senior UNCLE agents and held out a hand.  "Sergei Vantrees, head of night exercises and ambushes.  Welcome to Valtra Dornei, Mr. Solo."

     Solo took the hand cautiously.  "Are all your welcomes so warm and charming?"

     "Couldn't resist the opportunity to show the recruits what they could grow up to be if they're lucky.  Mr. Kuryakin, you are not injured?"

     "Of course not. I was more fortunate than your unwary student.  Don't you tell them not to play with knives unless they mean it?"

     "They did mean it.  Telling is one thing, practical experience is another.  I'll wager that Colson will be much more cautious around knives from now on.  He is one of my more reckless students and needed a lesson in life before he got one in death.  I was counting on both of you to keep them safe from themselves.  The van is this way, gentlemen."

     The two agents exchanged glances, and Solo shook his head.  "No thanks, we'll walk."

     "It's cold," warned Vantrees.

     "Warmer than the reception we'll get in the back of that van, I imagine," Illya observed as he pulled his ski jacket back on. "We'll see you there."

 

     Half‑frozen, Napoleon Solo trudged up to the oak door of Valtra Dornei, too uncomfortable to really pay any attention to the outward appearance of the castle except to note that it hadn't changed much.

     "No challenges," Illya muttered, pulling off a glove to blow on his fingers.  "Either the security around here is very lax, or they know we're coming."

     "I'll bet on the latter," Solo said, banging the knocker loudly.  "We're not here to complain, Illya, but to learn."

     "Exactly my point.  We should have had to fight to get this far." 

      Abruptly, the floor slid away from beneath them, and they found themselves falling into thin air, a chute catching them a breathless moment later and depositing them onto a bed of thick foam.

     "Now you know why we didn't challenge you," came a chuckling voice as the American and Russian righted themselves.

     Solo turned at the sound and laughed, "Severence, you son of a gun, I wondered whatever happened to you."  He grappled his way to the edge of the platform, dropped down to the floor, and reached for the man's hand.  Then his face went blank as he stared at the arm that ended in a stump.

     "Now you know."  The man withdrew the arm gently.

     "How did you lose it?" Solo was frank with his old friend.  "Booby trap?  Escape attempt?"

     "Car accident.  Slid on some ice and bang, that was all she wrote."  Severence Hans smiled at Solo's look of sympathy.  "So, how does the old place look, Mr. Kuryakin?"

     Illya was sitting on the edge of the platform, using the opportunity to study the cellar.  "I must admit it's a lot different than the last time I was here.  Granted, I was chained up over a pit of spikes at the time."

     "Wait until you see the rest of the place.  We tried to keep as much of the original decor as possible, but there's still been a lot of changes."

     "I can well imagine, Mr..?"

     "Hans, Severence Hans.  I was in Napoleon's class at the Survival School.  If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your quarters."  He headed for the stairs, not looking back to see if they followed, his carriage that of someone coming to the end of a weary day.

     "Tell me," Illya continued to study the much‑altered basement, "did you retain any of the old staff?"

     "Initially, yes, but one by one, they've all drifted away.  UNCLE is a much different world than they were used to. The last one to go was...ah, Marie something." Solo looked sharply at his partner, but the Russian seemed disinterested.   "Damned shame too.  She was a good nurse.  Took a shining to an agent who came through about a year, year and a half ago."  He tugged the door open with his left hand, bracing it with his leg.  "Unfortunately, there wasn't much left for us to work with.  THRUSH broke him completely.  In the end, we had to declare him unfit and give him early retirement.  She went with him."  Hans stopped, pausing to study the Russian. "Now that I think about it, he looked a lot like you, Illya."  He turned away to lead them up a hallway, and Solo took the opportunity to see what effect the news had on his blond partner.  The last time, he'd been certain that this was the mysterious woman of Illya's past, but he certainly couldn't tell it by looking at Illya now.  Whatever emotions he was experiencing were safely locked behind those blue eyes.

    They came to the end of the hall and mounted another short flight of stairs.

    "I didn't think we fell this far," Solo muttered, using the banister to help himself along.

     "Remember the whole place is built into a hillside," Illya pointed out before Hans got the chance.

     Severence chuckled and stepped up onto the landing, then turned to face the railing, gesturing expansively. "Well, what do you think, Illya?"

     For the most part, the hall below them was unchanged. The decor was still definitely Slavic, aside from an occasional UNCLE emblem.

     "Takes me back," Illya admitted, leaning on the polished railing.  "My grandfather would be pleased.  Is the rest of the house like this?"

     "Afraid not.  Upstairs," he pointed, "everything is regulation UNCLE, right down to the sheets on the bed.  We added a swimming pool, two gyms, three shooting ranges, four dozen more bedrooms and baths, an industrial kitchen, fifteen lecture halls, a library, et cetera.  Guess what I'm trying to say is that you might be able to find your way around the top floors, but I doubt it."

     The mahogany door swung back, and Solo was startled by the change.  True to Severence Hans's word, the bedroom was absolutely UNCLE.  It had been split into three smaller rooms, each one allowing just enough space for two cots, trunks, a small table, and three chairs.  Other than that, it stood bare, stripped of all artifacts that had once graced a lavishly ornate suite.

     "What sort of training schedule are we on, Sev?" Solo asked as they entered what was to be their shared quarters for the next two months.

     The tall man walked to a holder on the wall and removed two files, tucking one under an arm and flipping the other open awkwardly.  "Since the two of you are partners, you'll be tested as a pair.  Despite what you might have heard from Luke, who preaches the evils of partnership, we do stress it, particularly in cases of well‑established teams.  Once you're in the classroom, each of you is on your own. Napoleon, you've pulled the Surveillance and Subterfuge class.  Illya, you're on Concealment."

     "In other words, I teach sneaking, and Illya teaches hiding.  Right up our alley."

     "It's either that or water survival training if either of you want to change."

     "We'll stick with these assignments."  Napoleon noted that their suitcases were set at the end of each bed.

     "I figured as much.  I'd best let you get to sleep now. Reveille is at five a.m., so you'll probably want to get into bed before you have to get out of it.  I'll see you at breakfast."

     Napoleon sighed as Hans left.  "Your worries are confirmed.  Why me?  I've tried to be a good agent."

     "Beats the hell out of Survival School though.  At least, we don't have to fight the heat here."  Illya walked to his cot and sat to take off his boots.  "You can always put on more clothes if you're cold.  Not so with heat, you get down to..."  Illya trailed off, sitting very still.  "Um, Napoleon?"

     "Yes?"  Solo looked up from unbuttoning his shirt.

     "Could you come here please?"  Illya's voice was oddly pitched, and it hastened Solo's steps until came Illya's soft, "Slowly, Napoleon.  Very, very slowly."

     Solo checked his speed and came to stand in front of the blond, following the Russian's gaze.  Poised beside the Russian's thigh was a scorpion.  "Okay, I see him.  Don't move."

     "Don't worry."  Illya remained motionless, except for a nervous swallowing.

     Solo returned to his own suitcase and opened it, drawing out a recent issue of _Playboy_.  He returned to his partner and knelt before him.  "All right, Illya, I'm going to put this between you and it, hopefully quick enough to keep him from stinging you.  If not, where's the sick bay?"

     "Funny, just do it."  Illya tensed, ready to spring away the second he was given the opportunity.

     "On the count of three," Napoleon directed, positioning the magazine seam‑side down.  "One...two...THREE!"

     Kuryakin sprung up as the magazine came down, neatly planted between him and the insect.  The scorpion's tail quivered, stinging the paper again and again until flipped off the bed where Solo ended its life with the heel of Kuryakin's abandoned boot.

     "Okay?"

     "Okay, I just wasn't expecting the exercises to start so soon."  Illya stood a good distance from the bed, breathing deeply.

     Napoleon pulled the top blanket off and paused. "Somehow, I don't think they have."

     "What?"  Kuryakin forgot his scare of a moment ago and joined his partner.  Lying on the pillow was a torn scrap of paper, the words clear enough to be easily seen.

     "'Count the hours, you haven't long to live.  The Phantom'?" Solo read out aloud.  "Why do I have a feeling that history is repeating itself?"

 

 

CHAPTER TREE

     Napoleon Solo sucked beans off two of his fingers and tried to pretend he was somewhere else, somewhere warm. He'd given up shivering, being far too cold to even try.  He dug more beans out of the can and looked up as his partner squatted beside him, the white snow suit making him stand out against the dark, star‑flecked night sky.

     "Got the shelter finished.  Welcome to the Sheraton Kuryakin."  He gestured to a lean‑to, covered with branches and camouflaged with snow.  The Russian was the cold weather expert of the pair and held the responsibility of keeping them from freezing to death before the end of the exercise.

     Solo decided that he hated endurance tests and returned to his beans.  While at the Survival School, he suffered through nights of heat and insects and four days adrift in a life raft, but they were nothing compared to this.

     "Napoleon, how are you doing?"  The words came out in booming white clouds.

     "Freezing, thank you."  Solo directed his breath onto his exposed hand.  Illya dug out a tiny flashlight from a pocket and took Solo's hand, directing the beam onto the fingers and inspecting them carefully. 

    "I don't usually hold hands on the first date," Solo quipped as he was released.

     "Just making sure no frostbite was setting in.  You'll be all right once you get into the shelter.  It amazes me what little resistance you have to the cold."

     "Must be your heritage," Solo grumbled, casting aside the empty ration can and pulling on his insulated glove. "Still, I seem to remember reading in your file that you had a couple of nasty bouts of heat stroke when you were on the island."

     "Touché," Illya allowed him that one.  A slight, almost inaudible crunch silenced him, and the two agents exchanged glances.

     "Wolves?"  Solo reached for his rifle.

     "Not the four‑legged variety."  Illya studied the surrounding brush that hedged in the clearing.  "We'd better go for cover just in case.  I'll take the right."

     Within just a few steps, Kuryakin melted into the snow‑covered forest, just as Solo was certain he had.  He dropped to the ground and waited.

     A long minute later, two figures emerged from the woods, the full moon brilliant upon their white camouflage suits.  Solo sunk deeper into the snow and took aim.

     "Well, they were here," murmured the taller of the two as he knelt beside the can of discarded beans.  "Obviously into haute cuisine."  He stood and looked about.

     "Too many trails and knowing those two, they were probably walking backwards."  The second person was inspecting the lean‑to. "Looks like they were planning on spending the night.  I'll bet we scared them off."

     "Fantastic, that’s just what we needed.  It's this stupid snow.  You can hear someone coming a mile away."

     "Not always," Solo had slipped up behind them, his rifle nudging the back of the taller.  "Some of us can be quiet."

     "Damn," swore the shorter as he jumped, and the weapon swung slightly in his direction.  “Damn, damn, damn!”

     "Well put.  And now the hardware, gentlemen – be so kind as to remove it.  Slowly, if you please."

     Weapons were removed and held out at arm's length.

     "Into the water," Napoleon indicated the nearby stream with a nod of his head.

     "Foul," cried the taller.

     "In the water—I insist."  Napoleon rested the muzzle of the rifle against bare neck.

     "Sod it all," was the protest, but the action was carried out.  "You think you're pretty hot, don't you, Solo?"

     "Actually, I'm freezing to death."

     "And it's slowing your thinking, old man," came a third voice from the thick bush.  "Surely you don't think that we'd only send two men after the pair of you."  The speaker emerged from the dark, rifle aimed at Solo's chest.  "Mr. Solo, your weapon can join theirs in the drink.  Ray, Paul, you okay?"  He kept an eye on the older agent as he complied with the order.

     "Aside from flunking this assignment, just bleeding wonderful, Phil.  Thanks for the concern."  Paul, the taller, spoke with disappointment.

     "Don't worry about it," advised his rescuer.  "Now, Mr. Solo, where is your partner?"

     "What partner?" Napoleon said, smiling at the trio.

     "Kuryakin," the man began seriously.  "Short, blond...you know what partner!"  The rifle muzzle came to rest against Solo's Adam's apple.

     The crack of a gunshot rang out, and the weapon flew from the man's grasp, sending Solo on a leaping jump to claim it.  He rolled and came up in one smooth movement, steadying the gun's aim.

     "Oh, THAT partner.  Illya, where are you?"

     "Here, there, and everywhere," came the invisible response.  "Are we taking prisoners?"

     "They seem like fairly nice sorts.  Let's take them back with us.  Come on out, Illya."  At the silence that followed, Solo repeated, "Illya?  Illya?!"

     Gunshots cut him off, and he knew instinctively it wasn't friendly fire.   Napoleon dove for a snow bank, closely followed by the three other UNCLE agents, but not before Paul let out a cry of pain and stumbled. Immediately, Solo went back for him, dragging him to cover.

     "What the hell is going on?" Phil demanded as he crawled over to Solo's side.  "Has your partner gone crazy?"

     "Your guess is as good as mine, but I'd say we've been joined by some pretty unfriendly types."

     "Either that or your partner's finally gone over the hill," Ray muttered, scowling off into the night.

     As abruptly as it started, the shooting stopped, but all four men kept well hidden in the eerie silence that followed.

     "Illya?" Napoleon tried again and then handed the rifle to Phil.  "Here, I'm going to find him."

     "He'll cut you in two."

     "The women of this world couldn't handle two of me, and Illya knows it."

     "I don't believe that guy," murmured Paul as Solo moved out. "He's either the bravest man I've ever met or a bloody maniac."  He pulled away as Ray pressed a handkerchief on the man's wounded arm.  “Ow, take it easy.”

     "A little of both, I imagine," Phil kept the weapon trained on Solo.  "All those wild, impossible, crazy stories we've heard about these two are probably true."

 

     Solo moved carefully, keeping low to the ground, eyes searching for a shape.  His toe caught on something, and with a curse, he went down in a flurry of arms and legs.  He was glad that the brush hid him from the UNCLE trainees.

     Napoleon rolled over and sat up, his anger turning to concern when he saw what he'd tripped over.

     "Over here," he shouted as he pulled an unconscious Kuryakin into his arms and frowned.  "Better call for a medic, too."  A crumpled piece of paper in Kuryakin's hand drew his attention, and Solo tugged off his glove.  Holding it between his teeth, he pulled the scrap from his partner's grasp and stuffed it, unread, into one of his own pockets.

 

CHAPTER FORE

     Illya Kuryakin looked up from the cot in the sick bay and shook his head carefully.  "It wasn't me talking to you, Napoleon.  I couldn't have gotten more than four or five steps before someone hit me with that knock‑out dart." 'Honest' his voice seemed to add.

     Napoleon patted his shoulder and nodded, "You were certainly out cold when I found you, but if it wasn't you, who was it?"

     "Our phantom is back," Paul offered from his own bed. "Thought we'd gotten rid of the sucker."

     "Phantom?"  Napoleon looked towards him as Severence Hans entered.

     "You were told to forget about that, Paul, my boy.  No matter what you might think, that particular episode in this school's history is over and done with.  Regardless, we’ll handle it.

     "Yes, sir."

     "That's a good lad.  You get some sleep.  Napoleon, about that drink you owe me...I'm ready to collect."

     "Good luck, I've been trying for years," came Kuryakin's response. 

     Napoleon glanced back over his shoulder at the man. "I'll see you in the morning," Solo promised as he headed out the door.

     "I wonder..." Severence trailed off, head dropping in thought as they walked out together.

     "What?"

     "If there's anything here we can handle.  Here's my room."  He opened the door and gestured Solo in.  It was much the same as the other rooms except for the small personal touches that indicated someone's home as opposed to temporary quarters.

     "What did you mean by that?  And that phantom comment?" Solo took a seat in an armchair as Hans did the honors with a decanter of amber liquid.

     "One and the same actually."  He passed the first glass to Solo and poured a second for himself.  "When we got this house from your partner, we seem to have gotten more than just the building and surrounding countryside.  We also got its ghosts."

     "Ghosts?  I thought we exorcised those."  Solo sipped the brandy.  "This is very good."

     "Thanks and you did, at least the human ones.  We started having incidents that we couldn't slough off."  Hans lowered himself into a nearby armchair and sank back with a sigh.  "Bizarre events that we couldn't easily explain."

     "Like a desert scorpion in this climate," Solo suggested.

     "How did you know about that?"  Hans sat up in rapt attention.

     "Illya found one in his bed last night along with a charming little note that told him he wasn't long of this world."

     "Maybe Paul is right."  The glass was drained, and Hans stared at it.  "We finally pinned it on a student here.  He was investigated, discovered to have an unstable past, and subsequently removed from UNCLE.  Last report had him in Istanbul."

     "Could he be back?"  Napoleon sipped.

     "Not likely.  He'd have a helluva time getting in and would be recognized on sight.  Maybe we've got a copy cat that happens to be gunning for Illya.  Certainly wouldn’t be the first time one of you attracted ‘official’ attention."

     "Then why not kill him during the exercise tonight? Whoever it was certainly had the opportunity."  A sudden thought made Solo break off, and he reached into his pants pocket for the slip of paper he'd removed from Kuryakin's fist.  "I found this in Illya's hand, but didn't have time to read it.  Would you like to do the honors?"

     "Certainly."  Severence rose and took the paper, unwadding it before he went to retrieve the decanter and pour himself another generous portion of brandy.  He tucked the bottle beneath an arm and returned to his seat.

     "It says, 'Not yet, your time is coming,' and it's signed by the Phantom."

     "Just like the other one," Napoleon observed, leaning forward and holding his glass out for a refill.  "Has anyone else reported any strange goings‑on?"

     "Not yet and I would appreciate it if you and Kuryakin would keep a lid on this.  Things are just starting to settle down..." he trailed off as a klaxon went off.  "I spoke too soon.  That's the intruder alert."  He looked at a panel.  "Swimming pool looks like.  Might be our Phantom."

     "What are we waiting for?"  Solo set the brandy aside and rose, all in one liquid motion.

      "Let's go."

     They ran from the room and down the hall, Hans in the lead, Napoleon watchfully bringing up the rear.

     They finally came to a stop outside of the swimming pool, a crowd of anxious men and women milling about, all eager for a view into the room.  Severence pushed his way through and finally broke into the pool area itself, then came to such an abrupt stop that Solo nearly collided with him.

     "What's wrong?"  Napoleon came around him and stopped. The pool water was stained crimson, but not so much that he couldn't make out the two slowly swimming forms as sharks.

 

CHAPTER FIFE

     Two men stood facing the desk of Severence Hans, their backs as straight as if ramrods had been poked through them.

     "And you just decided to take a midnight swim," Hans looked up from the pencil that he drummed against the desktop. “Never mind that it’s against a dozen different rules.”

     "Yes, sir,” they chorused.

     "Despite the fact that the pool closes at ten.  How did you get in?"  At the look exchanged between the men, he repeated.  "How did you get in?"

     "We...ah...found a key that fit the door," replied the shorter of the pair.

     "Probably got lost somewhere in Administration, I imagine," Severence's voice had a sarcastic tinge to it. Napoleon Solo, who'd been a silent observer to this interview, frowned.  He disapproved of using sarcasm, especially as a disciplinary device.

     "Yes, sir."

     "And so you went down for your usual midnight swim. Then what, Jenson?"

     "Well, the lights were out," replied Jensen in a soft voice.  "Houston, he always claimed he could swim like a fish, and he dove in before we had a chance to get to the main switch."

     "That's not unusual though," piped up the shorter agent.  "Houston is always in the pool before us.  Only this time, he didn't do much swimming."  He paused.  "He started to scream, and by the time we got the lights on, the attack was pretty far along."

     "Why didn't you shoot the sharks, West?" was the next question.

     "We didn't have our guns, sir."  West's response was hushed.  "We weren't expecting trouble."

     "Unfortunately, you learned a hard lesson in that tonight.  What happened next?"

     West looked away, face ashen, and Jensen picked up.  "I pulled the alarm.  I figured it was the fastest way to get help.  West was...incapacitated."

     "And when you came back, that was when you noticed the writing?"

     "Yes, sir."  Again they answered together.

     "You realize that this makes you the suspect in all of this," Severence turned his attention to the red‑haired West.

     "Couldn't have been me, I was puking my brains out... sir," protested West.

     "So you say.  You're both confined to quarters until we get this straightened out.  Dismissed."

     Solo waited until the pair walked stiffly from the room.  "Sounds to me like someone knew of their late night swims and meant to put a stop to it."

     "Isn't this a bit extreme?  Tiger sharks in the pool? And that note on the wall?  Written in blood?  I could've thought of a few easier and just as effective ways of doing it, like maybe just reporting it to me."

     "Of course, this blows your earlier theory of someone after Illya."

     "Not necessarily.  Ever read Christie's _ABC Murders_?"

     "Can't say that I have."  Napoleon crossed his arms and waited.

     "A wants to kill C, but kills B instead to keep people off balance until he has a chance to kill C."

     "And Illya is C."

     "Maybe, maybe not."  Severence looked down at his fingers.  "I suppose I should make a report to Waverly. He'll probably want to send a special task force to investigate."

     "I'll save you the trouble, Sev.  Illya and I are here.  Ten to one, he'll turn it over to us in any case.  Let us have a go at it and see what we can turn up."

     "I don't want my butt in a sling because of this."

     "I'll take full responsibility, Sev.  You might say I have a personal interest in this.  After all, it’s my partner the Phantom is gunning for."

     "In that case, you wouldn't want to call Houston's parents, would you?"  Hans pushed the phone towards him.

     "Sorry, Sev, old man, I've already had enough of that chore to last me a lifetime.  I'm going to talk to Illya."

 

     Napoleon shook the limp shoulder gently, "Illya, wake up."

     "Must you yell so?" came the mumbled response.  A blue eye opened slowly, then closed.  "Leave me alone, Napoleon. There is a little man playing the _1812 Overture_ in my head, and I think he wants to finish."

     "Wonderful.  I hope he finds the time."  Solo sat on the edge on the bed and held out a glass of water and aspirin.  "Meanwhile, we've got work to do."

     "I am not up for rappelling today.  I'd kill us both."  Illya rolled over

     "Official work, Illya.  A trainee was killed tonight. He took a swim and ended up a midnight snack for sharks."  That brought the desired response. 

     The Russian sat up, if a bit slowly, and opened both eyes at once.  "What?"

     "Apparently, three trainees were making a habit of late night swims.  The first one in was also the first one out, in bits and pieces.  There was a note on the wall that you might remember.  "'Count the hours, you haven't long to live.  The Phantom'."

     "That's odd," Illya said, taking the pills and washing them down with a draught of water.  "If you plan to kill someone, why leave a message warning them?"

     "My feelings exactly.  One of the trainees mentioned that the lights were off, something that he wouldn't feel compelled to note unless they are usually on."

     "Perhaps the Phantom didn't mean for anyone to be killed, just scared.  What else do we know about this Phantom?"

     Napoleon relayed the information given him by Hans, ending with, "Last they knew, this guy was in Istanbul."

     "Sounds like some kind of frame‑up to me," Illya mumbled as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and dropped his head to his hands.

     "I'll let you get dressed."  Napoleon was careful not to fuss.  The Russian did not appreciate such overtures.  "Meet you back at our room."

     "It may take me awhile," came the warning.  “My legs have yet to start communicating with the rest of my body.

    “That’s okay, take your time.

 

CHAPTER SICK

     Napoleon Solo glanced at his watch again and walked to the window to stare out at the storm that raged beyond the walls of Valtra Dornei.   It was bad enough to have cancelled all outside activities.  He used a fingernail to idly scrape the accumulated frost from the pane and returned his gaze to his watch.  Illya's 'awhile' had already stretched into an hour, and the American was just about to go look for his partner when the Russian entered, a look of satisfaction on his pale face.

     "Napoleon, do you have more aspirin?"  Illya walked over to his bed and dropped an armful of papers, spreading them out as he did.

     "Where have you been?  I was about the send the cavalry after you," Solo said, looking through his shaving kit. 

     "Sorry, I was down at Admissions, seeing what I could find out about our Phantom."  He indicated the sheets before him.  "This is it."

     "And?"  Solo tossed a bottle to the blond.

     "Thanks," Illya acknowledged, catching the bottle one handed.  "The man in question is Simon Guralnik.  His propensity for practical jokes goes way back.  He once told his little sister that if she sucked the air from a balloon she would float away.  It may have been an innocent prank, but the girl inhaled two balloons worth of helium and jumped from a second floor window.  She ended up with two broken legs and a spinal cord injury.  His whole childhood is full of stuff like that. He was tossed out of medical school when he put a cadaver in the Dean's bed.  Dismissed from law school when he booby trapped the witness chair in their moot court. 

     "How did he even get into UNCLE to begin with?" Solo began to poke through the papers himself.

     "Excellent student, black belt in karate, expert with handguns.  Has an IQ of near one eighty—that's higher than yours, Napoleon, and nearly as high as mine."  The Russian grinned at the scowl.  "He was last reported working on an oil drilling project in Turkey three weeks ago."

     "That's more than enough time for him to get back here."

     "I quite agree except for one factor.  As of last night, he’s there on site.”

     "Do you have your communicator handy?"

     Napoleon accepted the instrument his partner passed over and pulled up the antenna.  "Open Channel T."

     "Channel T open.  Napoleon, is that you?" came the purr, and Illya rolled his eyes, dropping back to the pillows.

     "Giselle, how are you?"

     "Fine, now.  Are you in Turkey?"

     "No, Romania.  Listen, Giselle, my love, I need a favor.  You've been watching a Simon Guralnik.  He got tossed from UNCLE a few months ago."

     "Of course.  He's on the Benson Drilling Project."

     "Is he still there?"

     "He was as of this morning, although for how much longer, it's hard to tell.  Never know when he's going to pull some little prank, and off he goes in search of a new job and victim.  All things considered, he's a nice fellow."

     "Thanks, honey, you've been a great help.  I'll look you up the next time I'm in town."

     "You'd better.  Channel T out."

     "In every port, Napoleon?  How do you keep them straight?" Illya grumbled from his reclining position.

     The dark haired agent smiled and handed the communicator back.  "I don't have to.  They do it themselves.  Looks like we're back to Square One."

     "Somehow, I don't think we ever left.  It would be a mistake to blame Guralnik for this latest rash of incidents. Oh, I did a little test on the blood that was used to write the message.  It doesn't match Houston's."

     "That's not much help, Illya."  Solo returned to his vigil at the window.

     "Best I can do with a headache.  Should we contact Mr. Waverly?"

     "And tell him what?  That someone is playing pranks?"

     "Pretty deadly sense of humor."  Illya rose and went to stand by Solo's side.  "Mean night out there.  People die in storms like this.  I remember some of the stories my grandfather told me about these blizzards.  How they are really the souls of the damned coming for the living.  I don't know about my sisters, but it gave me a healthy respect for them."

     Perhaps it was the storm or Illya's comment, but sleep did not come easily for Napoleon that night.  He could hear the wind tug and pound at the window.  When he finally did fall asleep, it was restless and filled with half realized demons and ghosts.

     In fact, when the alarm sounded, he was at first grateful for the interruption until he recognized it as the intruder alert.

     "What is it?" Illya sat up, his hand reaching for his gun even before he was fully awake.

     "Trouble, I wager.  Let's go take a look."  Napoleon threw Illya's trousers to him, and Illya pulled them on as Solo hurriedly dressed.

     Guns drawn, the two edged from their room.  Since the hallway was clear, they headed for the entry hall.  Looking over the railing, Solo spotted Sergei Vantrees and waved.

     "What's wrong?" he called down to the man. 

     Vantrees scowled until he recognized the dark haired agent and gestured."Break in on the third floor."

     “In this storm?  That’s insane.”  Solo glanced over his shoulder at his partner.  "Illya?"

     "Follow me," Kuryakin commanded, taking the lead, and Solo was hard pressed to keep up with the smaller man.  They continued until they came upon a crowd of men and women huddled before a heavy mahogany door. 

     Solo knocked, and Hans's voice answered him, "Who is it?"

     "Sev, it's me.  Let me in."

     The door cracked opened, and Hans's lined face of peeked through.  "If you insist, but it's pretty cold in here."

     Cold indeed.  One of the large, multi-paned windows stood braced open, permitting the storm outside to belt its way in.  Hans closed the door behind them and returned to his struggle with the piece of wood that held the window up.

     "Allow me," Illya offered his help to the one armed man, and Hans gestured him onward.  Instead of pulling, Illya gave the timber a sharp kick, and the window slid close.

     "A touch nippy for fresh air, isn't it?"

     "I think they would agree with you," Hans blew on his hand to warm it as he turned, and Solo's face went heavy with anger and despair.  There was very little left to do for the two snow-covered agents laying on the cots except transport them to the morgue.

     "What happened?  What caused the alarm?"  Illya went to the side of one of the agents and began to brush away snow.

     "As near as I can figure, both windows were open."  He pointed to a piece of splintered wood.  "The stick holding the other one up must have broken.  The intruder sensors were covered with wax.  When the window fell down, it knocked the wax off, and the alarm sounded.  I also found this."  Hans stepped over a snowdrift and pushed aside a heavy curtain.

     Written in the frost on the window were the words, 'It was a cold time in the old town tonight.  The Phantom.'

     "Our Phantom is quickly becoming a very real threat to everyone here.  I would suggest we consider closing the school until we get this cleared up," Napoleon murmured, bending to examine the windows.

     "And how long will that take, Napoleon?  And what is the promise that it won't start all over again the moment we re‑open?  How do you know it's not that madman Guralnik? How do you know?"

     From his position beside the bed, Illya was startled by Hans's outburst.  Always in control of himself up to now, the man's anger seemed out of place.

     "I don't, Sev.  In fact, I'm not even going to pretend to have those answers.  I am contacting Mr. Waverly to recommend he send a special task force to investigate this. We can't afford to keep it among ourselves anymore."

     As quickly as he'd gone up, Severence calmed down and nodded, "You're right, of course.  It'll have to be after the storm though.  We can't get through now. We’re effectively shut off from the rest of the world until that storm dissipates."

     A knock took him back to the door, and he opened it to permit white clad medics to enter.

     "Nothing more you can do here, Sev.  We'll see to the clean‑up."  Napoleon slid an arm around the man's shoulders, guiding him out.  "Get some sleep.  We'll let you know if we find anything."

     Kuryakin watched the pair for a moment and then straightened.  "One thing, Napoleon," he murmured as the American came to join him.  "These men weren't killed by the cold.  They were dead before the Phantom got here."

 

CHAPTER SEVERE

     Illya Kuryakin leaned back on his cot and stared at the white‑washed ceiling.  "There are several things that are not making sense to me, Napoleon."

     "You too?  There's something gnawing at the back of my head, and I don't know what it is."

     "Let's be pragmatic about it.  We've had three murders, five attempts."

     "What if the killer, the Phantom for lack of a better name, thought he had disposed of you out in the field?"

     "You don't have to remind me."  Illya rubbed his head ruefully.  "I still have a headache from what he or she used."

     “Good thing you have the constitution of a tank then.”

     "Please, you're disturbing my train of thought. Anyhow, we've had five attempts and three successes.  It would have to be someone who was relatively familiar with people's schedules and who could get almost anywhere without arousing suspicion.  Someone in authority who would never be out of place no matter where or when he might turn up."

     Solo studied his partner with a hard, cold look.  "You mean someone like Sev."

     "Exactly.  And there is something else too.  Did you know that Hans wasn't driving the night he lost his hand?  A fellow agent was, and he escaped injury. Up to that point, Hans was considered one of the best in the field.  Now he's stuck out here, of no real use to anyone.  Men have become murderers for less."

     "I can't believe it of him."  Napoleon stood, pacing to the window in anger.  "It's impossible."

     "Then why wouldn't he let us contact Mr. Waverly?  We managed to call up Turkey earlier with no trouble, yet now our communicators aren't supposed to work?  Why didn't he report it to Mr. Waverly in the beginning?"

     "Because I told him we'd check into it first."

     "And if he expected exactly that reaction from you? He's known you for quite some time."

     "Then he'll have no trouble delivering your eulogy either."

     Both men spun at the voice.  Sergei Vantrees stood before them, gun firmly fixed upon his targets.

     "You?" Illya sputtered, coming off the cot.

     "Slowly, Mr. Kuryakin.  You may be part cat, but you've run out of lives now.  Your guns, toss them out the window, gentlemen.  You can raise it a good five inches before the alarm goes off."  He waited as they complied. "Now, if you'd take a seat at the table please."

     They sat, and Sergei produced a short length of chain and manacles from a back pack.  He dropped it to the tabletop and directed his glare at Solo.  "There are two iron rings under there.  Please pass one end of the chain through them and lock them onto your wrists and feet."

     He squatted a good distance from them and watched the process with an eagle eye.

     "May I ask why, Sergei?"  Solo was practically forced to lay his head upon the table.

     "My son was driving the car.  He would have been a good agent."

     "But he wasn't injured."

     "Physically, he was fine. But mentally, he was destroyed.  Oh, Severence was very casual about it.  He didn't have to live with the guilt, just sit back on his laurels and have UNCLE feel bad about it.  They took my son away wrapped in a sheet so he wouldn't hurt himself anymore.  He tried to hack off his own arm, you see.  When he couldn't do that, he took off a few things that were easier, most of his face and other... things."

     Illya winced at the thought.  "Severence didn't know it was your son."

     "No, and I never found a reason to tell him."

     "What about the others?  Houston?"  Solo edged a little closer to the table to relieve the cutting pressure of the metal.

     "They didn't deserve to be agents.  They were weak, fallible.  As for you two, you're too damned good; no one can come close, so many don't even try.  If they had someone more realistic to look up to, they would try harder."

     "And now what?  Are you going to leave us chained up here until we die from lack of circulation?"

     "Not quite, although that's an appealing thought. These rooms are practically airtight, nothing can crawl in or, more importantly, out.  I'm going to leave in a moment and bring back a few playmates for you.  I hope you both like gila monsters.  I'm afraid these haven't been handled too well by people, and they are a bit hostile.  I'm sure you'll calm them right down though."

     "Wonderful, snakes, spiders, and now this," Illya spoke loudly, staring the man full in the face as the door behind him opened quietly.

     "Why are you shouting?"  A noise distracted him, and Vantrees spun, but not before a gun butt came down firmly upon his head, and he crumpled to the ground. Severence Hans barely gave the man a second glance as he dug though his pockets until finally finding a key and moving to free Solo and Kuryakin.

     "Sev, how..?"

     The man grinned as he struggled with the chain.  "I was outside under the window having a smoke.  Your guns nearly bashed my brains in."  He looked over at the fallen agent and shook his head.  "He's wrong, you see.  I did know it was his son."

 

EPILOGUE

     Severance Hans looked down the tracks and then at his watch.  "Well, train's never early.  Don't know why today would be any different."

     "Glad to be rid of us, Sev?" Napoleon Solo smiled at the man as he smoothed his hair into place.

     "You come in, get involved in a murder scheme, show me up, and then flunk half my trainees.  You bet I'm glad to be rid of you."

     "Whatever happened to Vantrees?" Illya asked, looking up from the text he was studying.

     "From what I understand, they got him a nice room right beside his son's.  Really a shame, that whole affair."

     Nodding, Illya glanced over his shoulder at the now distant Valtra Dornei with mixed emotions about a place that had seen so much death.

     "Sad to go, Illya?" Severance patted the shorter man's shoulder.  "I could always use another instructor.  You could come home."

     Illya shook his head and smiled.  "You can never go home.  Besides," Illya added, pulling a piece of paper from a pocket that Solo recognized as the last message left by the Phantom.  "Home was never like this."

     And around the bend, the train whistle sounded.

 

                                    

 

 


End file.
